


Fred and George Weasley and the Boy Who Grew

by beforebreakfast, orestesfasting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Incest, M/M, Mutilation, Sibling Incest, Suicide, Twincest, ear fic, raising a frankenstein boy, this is a joke in case it's not horribly obvious!!!!!!!, who grew from george's missing ear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 05:22:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11456856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beforebreakfast/pseuds/beforebreakfast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orestesfasting/pseuds/orestesfasting
Summary: “What if…” Fred begins, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Mum said your ear couldn’t regrow because it’s a curse wound. But I mean… your ear must have fallen somewhere, relatively intact… and maybe the opposite happened….”“The opposite?” George says through gritted teeth.Fred swallows. “Maybe you can’t regrow the ear, but the ear could regrow… a person.”********This is the story of a boy who lost an ear, and an ear who lost a boy....until they were reunited in the most unexpected way imaginable................





	Fred and George Weasley and the Boy Who Grew

**Author's Note:**

> it speaks for itself

Across a lush English field, a warm breeze blew, marking one of the last nights of summer. Naught stirred. All was silent and golden, as the sun crested over the distant hills. Quietly, a dormouse peeked its sleepy head out of its tiny burrow and sniffed the air.

 

Hundreds of feet above the earth, an ear-splitting scream rent through the sky. The dormouse squeaked in panic and hurried back into its burrow, keeping an eye out for any other signs of disturbance. But before its ears could more than register the whistling sound of something falling from the sky, something huge landed with a thud mere inches from where the dormouse hid.

 

The mouse shuddered in her burrow, but peered out, unable to control her curiosity. There, lying amidst the dew-dappled grass, was _something--_ something that the mouse was sure she had seen before. It looked like a piece of the giant men who sometimes came stomping through her field, with their guns slung over their shoulders and voices raised too loud. But this piece was grotesque, incomplete. A single ear, tattered and bloody.

 

After staring at it a moment longer, the dormouse crept out of her burrow and approached the ear. It may have been incomplete, but nonetheless it was as large as her entire body, and she tried not to imagine the sort of beast to whom it had been attached. She sniffed it and recoiled––not in disgust, but in fear. This was no ordinary severed ear, that she knew for certain. Then, the mouse jumped in alarm and scurried back into her burrow as fast as her little feet could carry her. She couldn’t be certain, but as she stared back at the bloody ear, she could have sworn she saw it give an unnatural, inhuman lurch.

 

*************************************************************************************

 

Fred can’t remember the last time he really felt safe. There’s no real rest anymore, not with the Order always busy and new casualties every day––but nonetheless, George and he had been granted a few weeks to recuperate at the Burrow before moving on. He knows it costs the Order to allow this, but somehow can’t bring himself to refuse. George needs the rest, no matter what he says, and Fred knows perfectly well it would be impossible for either of them to heal without the other.

 

He washes their tea mugs in the kitchen sink, relishing the meditative nature of doing the task without magic, and his mind wanders to the night before. When they’re at the Burrow, he and George generally sleep in their separate twin beds; but ever since the accident, he found he couldn’t keep himself from his twin’s side, no matter the danger of blowing their cover. Not that it’s been anything but innocent the past three nights––he’s fallen asleep with his arms around George, and woken up cradling his twin’s head against his chest. And if either of them wake up with tear tracks dried on their cheeks––well, no one has to know but them.

 

After all, it’s hard to keep his spirits up, hard for both of them to maintain their usual jokester personas these days. He and George do their best when they’re around the others, but at night Fred can’t keep the fear from creeping in, chilling his very bones. He doesn’t know how he’d survive alone––doesn’t know how he’d survive without George, the one person who he knows is bonded to him on every level.

 

As if in response to these thoughts, Fred feels a warmth behind him, and, a split second later, George’s arms wrap around his waist. It’s the sort of simple affection they would rarely show during their Hogwarts years, somehow too adult and serene to make into a joke. But the world has changed, and so have they, and Fred no longer finds such displays embarrassing or worthy of scorn.

 

“You’re not using your wand,” George murmurs, his lips against Fred’s neck.

 

Fred closes his eyes and grins. “That must be it. Thought there was something a little off.”

 

He wipes his hands on a dishtowel and turns around. He’s always secretly liked the fact that George is slightly taller than him, even bends his knees a little to bury his face in his twin’s neck. George hums, stroking Fred’s spine, and Fred’s fingers gingerly find their way to the side of George’s head.

 

He’s not sure if he’ll ever get used to it. The wound itself has healed well enough, but the mutilated scarring is enough to make his heart stop every time he even thinks about it.

 

“How do you feel?”

 

“All right, I just did a painkilling charm.”

 

Fred lifts his head and looks into George’s dark eyes. “You should’ve let me do that for you.”

 

George grins. “Needed the practice.”

 

Fred leans close, but just as his lips are about to brush against George’s, there is a knock at the door. Years of secrecy and paranoia makes him freeze and pull back, and George grimaces slightly, recognizing the instinctive alarm on Fred’s face.

 

“Just the door,” Fred says bracingly, trying to brush the moment aside. “I’ll get it.”

 

“What are you talking about?” George says, his face darkening. “We’re not expecting anyone. It could be––”

 

There’s another knock at the door, more insistent this time; just two low thuds against the wood.

 

“It can’t be just anyone,” says Fred, his voice dropping despite himself. “No one should be able to come within a hundred yards of the house…”

 

He trails off, and they stand in silence together, staring at the door. For a moment Fred thinks whatever made the noise has passed on. But then, through the quiet of the kitchen, comes a new noise: a long, low, screeching sound, like a dog dragging its claws along the door.

 

They draw their wands. With a glance at Fred, George approaches the door and peers through the curtain. Then he gives a strangled yell and jumps back in alarm.

 

“What? What is it?”

 

“I… I don’t know.” George is standing back from the door but can’t seem to tear his eyes away. “It looks like….” He shakes his head, as if he cannot bring himself to say.

 

His heart hammering more than he would have liked to admit, Fred pulls the curtain on the door aside. There, standing on the porch, is––George. George, entirely naked, with an oddly blank expression on his face. But no, it couldn’t possibly be, he realizes as he looks around wildly at his twin and sees his own bewildered expression mirrored on his face.

 

“Polyjuice potion?” George murmurs, his voice hoarse.

 

“But if this was a Death Eater they wouldn’t have been able to get past Moody’s shield charms… and why would they bother knocking on the door… and why no clothes?”

 

“What else could it be, though?” George whispers. “Hell of a time for someone to be making jokes, if that’s all….”

 

Before Fred can respond, the thing outside bangs on the door again, this time rapidly and without pause.

 

The twins exchange another glance. “Count of three?”

 

George nods. They approach the door, wands held steady, and open it a crack.

 

“ **_STUPEFY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ ** ” they shout together.

 

The creature freezes––for a moment its eyes move between the twins, and then it falls with a crash through the open door, landing in a heap at their feet.

 

Fred lets out a tiny gasp of relief. A part of him had worried that wouldn’t work, and that this strange facsimile of his brother would simply crash into the kitchen, unstoppable.

 

“Merlin… it must have had a job getting here without any pants on,” George says, staring down at the thing in revulsion.

 

Fred doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know if he feels comfortable calling this creature “it,” yet, not when it bears such a resemblance to the person he cares about most in the world. “Let’s get him out of the kitchen at least, yeah?” With a flick of his wand he levitates the body and directs it up the stairs, he and George following behind.

 

“What do you want to do with it, then?” George asks behind him. His voice is still low, as if he somehow expects the creature to overhear.

 

“Check it out, to begin with.” Fred concentrates on the floating body, directing it through the narrow hallway that leads to their shared room. “See if it’s actually dangerous, or just….”

 

“Or just what?” George follows him inside, watching as Fred lowers the unconscious body onto their bed. “Some harmless prank? Kinda doubt it, Freddie. And do you have to put it on our bed?”

 

“It was just my bed until a bit ago,” Fred mutters, but George ignores him.

 

“Let’s figure out what it is,” he says, running a hand through his hair agitatedly. He approaches the body and points his wand at its chest. “ _Specialis revelio_.”

 

The body remains motionless. “Shit,” George says. “If it’s not Polyjuice potion….”

 

“Wait,” says Fred. “What’s that?”

 

A strange glow emits from the far side of the head. Fred tiptoes around to the other side of the bed and gasps. The creature’s entire left ear is glowing, though it lasts only a few seconds before returning to normal again.

 

“Its powers are in its––?”

 

“Oh, really fucking funny,” George spits. “Ron or Ginny’s behind this, I bet you anything. Probably Ginny, dunno if Ron could––”

 

“George, come on, Ginny couldn’t do something like this either,” says Fred, but he’s hardly paying attention to what he’s saying. He leans down to inspect the ear. He feels his heart quicken and his throat grow tight. The skin around the ear is strange and rough looking, as if it has been torn and scarred over dozens of times. It looks, Fred thinks with a lurch, as if the ear was simply sewed on.

 

“George…” he begins, noticing vaguely that his voice much higher than normal. “I––”

 

But then he sees it. Just a small mark on the earlobe, but he’d know it anywhere. He used to kiss that spot, whisper against it at night. He knows George’s body better than he knows anything in this world.

 

“It’s––” He fights to speak through the tightness in his throat. “It’s your ear, George. It’s not imitating you or anything like that. That’s the ear you lost.”

 

“How do you mean?” George asks, and Fred can tell he’s trying not to sound frightened.

 

“I mean it’s your ear.” He’s surprised by how calm he is, all of a sudden. “That’s your freckle. It’s yours. It’s _you.”_

 

“It’s not _me.”_ George sounds annoyed now, as well as frightened. “Even if it is my ear, if this thing somehow––what, grew out of it?––that doesn’t make it me, _I’m_ me….”

 

Fred is silent a moment, thinking. “I think we should revive him.”

 

“What?” George yelps. “But––”

 

“Yeah, I wanna hear what he has to say.”

 

George is quiet, and for a second Fred expects him to refuse. But then he shakes his head. “Fine. But we tie him up first.”

 

“It’s not as if he’s got a wand.”

 

“I don’t care.” He points his wand at the body and immediately ropes shoot out and wrap tightly around the chest. Fred shoots George a disgruntled look and then raises his own wand.

 

“ _Rennervate_.”

 

The body tenses for a moment, and then its eyes snap open. It stares around the room, looking glassy and confused.

 

George stays stock still, apparently not wanting to approach the creature, but Fred leans in closer. He can’t bring himself to be really afraid or disgusted––if anything, the sight of George’s naked body tied to their shared bed gives him a guilty twinge of pleasure––but he approaches cautiously, recognizing danger is still possible.

 

He clears his throat. “Who––who are you?”

 

The creature opens its mouth and lets out a long wheeze. _“Fhhiiiittttttitttttzzzzzzzzz,_ ” it hisses.

 

“Fitz?” George says in manic incredulity. “Did it just say Fitz? Fitzwilliam? Fitzgerald?” He gives a high pitched laugh which Fred doesn’t discourage. Better that than full blown panic.

 

“Fitzpatrick, maybe,” he suggests, shooting George a cautious grin.

 

George laughs. “Yeah, that’s good. What’s up, Fitzpatrick?”

 

The thing––Fitzpatrick, Fred supposes––turns his neck slowly to peer at George.

 

“He’s responsive,” Fred says, stating the obvious for lack of any better observations. “He’s...well, at least he _seems_ to be human.”

 

“But… but Fred, he _can’t_ be,” George says, eyebrows furrowed. “Where did he come from? And how did he get… get my….” He trails off, his fingers running gingerly over the hole where his ear is supposed to be.

 

“Do you remember what curse Snape used on you?” Fred asks.

 

“Funnily enough, all I seem to remember is lots of blood and agony, so I can’t say I caught the incantation, Fred.” He pauses. “Lupin said it was something Snape invented himself, though. So something slimy, I expect.”

 

“What if…” Fred begins, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Fitzpatrick looks between them, seeming mildly interested except for the fact that he’s drooling onto the bedsheets. “Mum said your ear couldn’t regrow because it’s a curse wound. But I mean… your ear must have fallen somewhere, relatively intact… and maybe the opposite happened….”

 

“The opposite?” George says through gritted teeth.

 

Fred swallows. “Maybe you can’t regrow the ear, but the ear could regrow… a person.”

 

“You seriously think that’s how it works?” George’s voice contains a mixture of disgust and shock, but not, Fred is pleased to note, complete disbelief. “That a bit of me could fall in a ditch somewhere, and just keep growing, like a worm cut in two?”

 

Fred shrugs. “Not claiming I’m an expert on… whatever this is. But we’ve seen strange things, haven’t we? Why not this as well?”

 

George opens his mouth to reply, but then shuts it, his eyes on the door. Fred heard it too. “Quick,” he hisses as George points his wand at Fitzpatrick once more. The creature’s quiet grunting immediately ceases as George’s charm takes effect, and the twins hurry out of the room, locking the door behind them.

 

Downstairs, Molly is moving around the kitchen, taking off her coat and sinking into a chair. Fred whistles tunelessly as he enters the room, George behind him.

 

“Afternoon, mummy,” George says, kissing her on the top of the head.

 

She smiles fondly at him and reaches up to smooth his hair. Molly’s new sweetness for the pair of them hasn’t been lost on Fred, but he isn’t complaining––he felt it too, this new need to bond together and let his loved ones know what they were to him.

 

“Are you both holding up all right?” Molly asks, turning to Fred now and kissing his cheek. “I do wish I could come by and see you more often.”

 

“We’re fine, mum,” Fred assures her. “Could be worse than being holed up safe and sound in the best house in the world.”

 

“Don’t know about safe and sound, but all the same.” Molly leans back, sighing deeply. “I can’t stay long––I have to keep watch over the safe house where Diggle has been stationed before he heads out tonight, but I wanted to check in first. Are you really both all right?”

 

“Fine, really,” George says fervently.

 

“Well,” says Fred, and he ignores the look his brother shoots at him. “Actually, we wanted to ask you something.” Molly starts, her eyebrows furrowed, but Fred is quick to cut in. “We were just wondering, er, what you knew about curse wounds. Curse amputations, to be more specific.”

 

Fred chances a glance at George and is unsurprised to see him looking murderous. Molly’s expression is also unsurprising, as she looks at her two sons with sadness and pity written on her face.

 

“You’re sweet, Freddie,” she says fondly. “I knew you’d be just as upset as George was. But I told him the truth––the ear won’t regrow, not when it’s been cursed off.”

 

“That’s what I told him, mum, he’s just––”

 

“I know it won’t regrow,” Fred interrupts. “But what about the ear itself? Would it behave just like any amputated limb and, I don’t know, rot or something? Or would it be different, since it’s cursed?”

 

This time, there’s no sympathy in his mother’s voice as her eyes narrow at him suspiciously.

 

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, Fred, but you can forget it right now. This is not some opportunity to go meddling with unnatural Dark magic. I don’t care what ideas you’ve got for your next Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes product––”

 

“So it is some sort of Dark magic, then?” Fred presses on, trying hard to keep his eagerness contained. “That sort of thing can happen?”

 

Molly looks at him carefully. “There’s been… speculation,” she admits grudgingly. “Some people claim that if a limb is cursed off cleanly enough….”

 

“Yes?” Fred prompts, and this time his excitement is all too evident. Molly shoots George an anxious look before turning to glare at Fred.

 

“Never you mind,” she says, sounding much more like her old self. “I don’t like to think of you messing about with Dark magic––there’s quite enough flying around with your help.” She looks at George and her expression softens. “Now, I need to be on my way. Take care of yourself, and please, for the love of your family, don’t do anything _too_ stupid.”

 

After one more kiss on the cheek apiece, she’s off again, leaving Fred and George alone in the kitchen.

 

“What now?” George asks after a beat.

 

Fred had been thinking the same thing, but he had an idea––a crazy, wonderful, terrifying idea that he hardly has the nerve to speak aloud. But who else is more receptive to his crazy, wonderful, terrifying ideas than the boy standing before him?

 

“Well,” he says, looking up the staircase. “Why don’t we find out if Fitzpatrick has any interest in learning to speak English?”

 

*************************************************************************************

 

The rest of the year passes in a blur of strange new experiences. Although Fred knows that George hadn’t wanted to admit it, soon enough it is impossible to argue: Fitzpatrick is a part of the family. From the outside it must appear that the twins had become triplets (not that they ever let Fitzpatrick out into the open), but that would imply a level of sameness that simply does not exist. It was more as if Fred and George had adopted a bizarrely full-grown son, and teaching him the ways of the Wizarding world is still sometimes a struggle.

 

To be fair, it is an increasingly terrible world in which to grow up. Each day brings news of more deaths and disappearances, and though Fitzpatrick can’t possibly understand why Fred and George fearfully scan the _Prophet_ for familiar names, it is clear that the dark times are impressing a certain solemnity on him.

 

Fred often reflects sadly that Fitzpatrick had not asked to be born (if you could even call his unnatural spontaneous growth _being born_ ). He is a simple creature, a child of the night forced into the sun for too long. Even given all the attention and affection that Fred and George can muster (which is not always much, on George’s part), he remains a sad stunted thing, only capable of speaking in rudimentary English, with all his words centering exclusively on immediate bodily needs. Watching him over breakfast in the boarded-up flat above their boarded-up shop, Fred shakes his head gravely. The Dark Arts never bred anything healthy.

 

There is a certain parallel to be drawn between Fitzpatrick, Fred thinks, and another young creature marked forever by a terrible curse––Harry Potter, or, as he is more commonly known as these days, the Chosen One. Dark magic made both of them who they were, and yet neither seem tempted by the vestige of its power. Not that this observation, whenever Fred remarks on it, makes much of an impression on George. He still mistrusts the creature, and Fred can’t exactly blame him––if it was his ear from which Fitzpatrick had sprung, his feelings would surely be similar.

 

When Arthur showed up at their flat with the news that Voldemort and the Death Eaters were opening attack on Hogwarts, Fred couldn’t pretend to be surprised. Somehow he always knew it had been leading to this, that the past two years of terror would end (he refused to even consider any other outcome) in outright battle.

 

After anxiously seeing Arthur off and promising to follow quickly, Fred buries his face in his hands, gathering himself for a moment while George runs through the flat, checking that it’s secure enough to leave.

 

“All clear,” George says, reentering the kitchen.

 

“Good,” Fred says. “Only one thing left.”

 

He crosses to the small kitchen cupboard the pulls the door open. Inside, Fitzpatrick peers out at him fearfully, emitting a small whine.

 

“It’s all right,” Fred says soothingly, while George pointedly looks the other way. “Don’t be frightened. You’re going to be man of the house for awhile now, Fitz, while George and I are away fighting bad guys.”

 

“Fitzpatrick no want be alone!” says Fitzpatrick in his usual broken English. “Need Fred! Need Gorg!”

 

“Can he seriously still not say my name right?” George mutters behind them. “He’s got yours down.”

 

“Mine is simpler,” Fred says gently.

 

“They’re one syllable each.”

 

“No talk Fitzpatrick like he no here!” says Fitzpatrick agitatedly.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“George, he needs to know––”

 

“He’ll _live_ , Fred!” And then George is pulling him up, gripping the front of Fred’s shirt in his clenched fists. Fred’s breath leaves him when he realizes his twin’s eyes are brimming with tears. “We might not, though.” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

 

Fred swallows hard. He grips George’s face in both hands and presses their foreheads together; George’s eyelids flutter shut. “You can’t think like that, Georgie. We’re gonna live through this. Both of us. You hear?” George shuts his eyes tight.

 

“I hate the idea,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “that one of us could get hurt, and the other would have to watch. I don’t know if I could survive that, Freddie.”

 

Fred cups George’s jaw in his palm gently. “They won’t split us apart. I won’t let them. Besides,” he says with a grin, when George looks unconvinced, “I survived seeing you lose an ear, didn’t I?”

 

George doesn’t smile. “We both stand to lose a lot more than ears tonight, Fred.”

 

“Then let’s make the most of the time we have.”

 

But just then, Fitzpatrick begins whining again, and Fred smiles indulgently. George looks crestfallen.

 

“Come on,” Fred says, grasping his brother’s shoulder. “Doesn’t help to get all glum on me.”

 

“If we only have a little time,” George says tersely, “I don’t want to waste it on _him.”_

 

As if sensing they’re talking about him, Fitzpatrick redoubles his whining and bangs his head against the  cupboard door. Instinctively, Fred moves to stop him––behind him, he hears George give a little scoff and walk away.

 

“George, _wait_ ,” Fred says, catching up to his brother and putting a hand on his shoulder. As if waiting for his touch, George spins around. Fred only has time to glimpse the blazing look in his eyes before George’s lips are on his.

 

The entire world drops away––George is all there is, the feel of him under Fred’s hands, the taste of him on Fred’s tongue. They kiss as they’ve never done before, and when they break apart (had it been minutes or centuries? did they miss the battle altogether?), Fred feels dizzy, winded, but his head is clear. The task before them is simple, and a look into George’s eyes is all he needs to know his twin is realizing the same thing. They’ll be together after the battle no matter what.

 

“Ready?” he murmurs, and George nods. Without so much as a backward glance at Fitzpatrick, the twins step out the front door and Disapparate with a loud _crack_.

 

*************************************************************************************

 

George can’t remember what happened. He can’t remember––he can’t, he can’t––

 

He tells everyone who asks ( _where were you? how did it happen? are you okay?_ ) the same thing. _I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know._ His ear is ringing, which is the only reason he knows he’s still in his body. He can walk around, certainly, and talk, and nod numbly as the survivors recite the list of the dead, but it’s as if he’s floating a metre outside of himself, and the meaning of any interaction only reaches him after a thirty second lag.

 

His mother told him Voldemort is dead, told him he’d witnessed Harry defeat him with his own eyes. George supposes he should believe her.

 

Somehow, he makes it back to his flat. Everyone fretted, of course they did, but he can’t be around other people. Not tonight. Maybe it sounds dangerous to leave him alone, but there’s only one person he wants, and that person is gone forever. Without him, solitude is preferable.

 

Solitude--or is it? He remembers a split second before opening the door, and then it’s too late.

 

“GORG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

 

Fitzpatrick runs to hug him, but George pushes him away, more roughly than he intended. The violence is met with wide, confused eyes––Fred’s eyes, _God_ ––

 

“Why Gorg push Fitzpatrick? What Fitzpatrick do?”

 

George stares at him. It’s pointless to try explaining--he doubts he could get the words out, and anyway, there is no understanding to be had in this wretched creature.

 

There’s only one thing left for George to do, now that his world has been stolen from him. It comes to him dimly, yet inevitably, as inarguable as any deeply rooted instinct.

 

“Fitzpatrick.” He places his hand on the creature’s shoulder, and it stills, staring at him. George isn’t sure if he’s ever willingly touched this being before. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shoved you.”

 

Fitzpatrick continues to gape at him, so George continues. “I––Fred and I––we have to go away for a while. A long while. So you’re going to have to keep on being the man of the house for a little longer. At least until––until Mum shows up.”

 

George pauses as the pieces clink into place. “Who show up?” asks Fitzpatrick. “Moom?”

 

“Mum. Our mother.” His stomach lurches as he speaks the word _our._ Who does he mean by that, now?

 

“Mum.” Fitzpatrick tries to word out curiously.

 

“That’s right,” George says encouragingly. He hesitates, then continues. “But there’s one more thing we need to do. Can you help me, Fitz?”

 

Apparently surprised by the use of the nickname, Fitzpatrick goes still, looking at George with wide, obedient eyes. He is such a simple thing, George reflects, hardly more intellectually engaged than a calf, and just as trusting. Yet there is no doubt that he has been growing. George has watched him, this past year, develop from a newborn creature into something more akin to a toddler--only logical, he supposes, considering how recently he was brought into this world. It gives George some degree of comfort to think that perhaps, in a few years, Fitzpatrick will be fully grown. At least then he won’t be a burden to anyone then, even if he does have to sort through his own confusion.

 

Slowly, George raises his wand and points it at Fitzpatrick. Fitzpatrick doesn’t flinch, just continues looking at George with those wide, dark, and trusting eyes, and George falters.

 

But he knows it’s the only way. He can’t let his family go through any more pain than they already have. It’s the thought of them he clings to as he grips his wand tightly and raises it again.

 

“This is going to hurt, Fitz,” he says. “But it’s for your own good. Do you trust me?”

 

He knows what the answer will be, but it still sends a stab of remorse through him when Fitzpatrick nods.

 

“ _Diffindo_.”

 

Fitzpatrick’s wail of pain cuts through the stillness of the night. He drops to his knees, cupping the side of his head in his hands.

 

George sinks down beside Fitzpatrick, prying away his hands, ignoring the hot blood flowing between his fingers. “Let--me--” he mutters in frustration, coaxing Fitzpatrick’s hands away until he can point his wand at the wound and mutter a healing incantation.

 

The wound begins to knit, and slowly the bleeding stops, although Fitzpatrick’s sobs are steady. George supposes he’s never experienced pain like this before. Most people haven’t.

 

“ _Scourgify_ ,” George says quietly, cleaning the blood from Fitzpatrick’s face. Ignoring his cries (there’s nothing to be done about that, not now), he picks the once again severed ear from the floor and holds it in the palm of his hand.

 

“W-Why?” Fitzpatrick stutters, his shaking fingers gingerly touching the ragged hole in the side of his head.

 

George attempts a reassuring smile. “You’re like me now, Fitz.”

 

Fitzpatrick’s wide eyes rove to the side of George’s head. “Like Gorg,” he says slowly.

 

George curls his fingers around the ear and stands up. Fitzpatrick stays huddled on the ground, looking up at him wonderingly.

 

“Say hello to Mum for me,” George says quietly, and turns toward the door. He doesn’t look back as he steps out into the cool night and shuts the door tight behind him.

 

*************************************************************************************

 

On Battersea Bridge, the air is crisp and sweet. George inhales slowly. Across the Thames, he can just make out budding trees bringing color on the horizon; spring has arrived in London. He’s always liked the spring. More than any other season, it seems to signify change.

 

He looks down at the ear still clutched in his fist, and in the light from the streetlamps sees the small freckle Fred had noticed on the lobe, all those months ago. Having it back is almost enough to make him feel whole again.

 

Almost. He won’t truly be whole until he’s with Fred again. And it’s Fred he thinks of as he gazes down into the murky depths of the river, Fred’s face that floods his mind the way the water will soon flood his lungs.

 

It’s not half as scary when he thinks about it like that. Less like venturing into the unknown, and more like returning to his truest home.

 

This thought will sustain him in his remaining moments. He takes a final breath, holds the ear tight to his chest, and steps forward.

 

*************************************************************************************

 

Following the war, the world is a different place. Of course, Molly knew that it would be, but it’s still incredible to see how deeply the devastation has wound itself into every aspect of life. It isn’t just the lost lives: those who survived have been forever changed, too.

 

Percy, for instance. Molly’s golden boy has returned to the family, pulled back by love and sorrow. He’s a different person than she remembers: more uncertain, less idealistic.

 

Or Ginny. Always vibrant and self-assured, Molly’s sole daughter seems more pensive nowadays, and less prone to hurrying into things. That, in itself, is not a terrible change.

 

And then of course there’s George. Perhaps no one, Molly thinks, has been altered to quite the same degree.

 

If you had asked Molly to imagine a George without Fred, or a Fred without George, she would not have been able to do it. The mere idea is laughable and perverse, a pointless thought exercise focusing on an implausible situation. It is fitting then, she supposes, that George seems so entirely different now. Maybe he just couldn’t exist without his brother. Maybe the only other option was to become someone new. After all, she reflects, when a flower is cut from a vine, the plant doesn’t die--instead it may change course and bear bitter fruit.

 

She tucks these winding thoughts away as she approaches her son’s ward. The staff at St. Mungo’s treat him kindly enough, it seems, although she would prefer to keep him at home. Everyone agreed that the hospital was the best place for him, and even though it hurt, she acquiesced in the end.

 

She closes her eyes and steels herself––something she’s found to be an integral part of the procedure––before knocking tentatively and pushing the door open a crack.

 

“Georgie?”

 

He’s facing away from her, sitting at a table across from a man whose face once sent a thrill running up Molly’s spine. As with her son, hardly a shred of that man remains.

 

“Bombs away!” Gilderoy hollers, and the Exploding Snap cards in his hand explode.

 

George throws his head back and laughs––Molly can see the top of his scrunched nose, and it’s enough to break her heart in twain. She approaches the table gingerly.

 

“Ah, look who it is, my friend! Lovely to see you, yes, yes,” Gilderoy rambles, hands slapping his white robes in search of what Molly knows to be signed photographs.

 

“No need, Gilderoy, no need––”

 

“Aha!” He pulls a crumpled napkin out of his breast pocket and beams victoriously for a moment, before his face settles into a confused expression. “Ah, well,” he sighs, and blows his nose into it luxuriously. “Another time.”

 

Molly settles down into the open chair and turns, finally, towards her son. “Georgie,” she repeats, soothingly. “How have you been since my last visit, sweetheart?”

 

George stares back at her with his wide, vacant eyes--those eyes which were once so full of the world’s light.

 

“Mum visit Fitzpatrick?” he says.

 

Even that is enough to crush what remains of Molly’s worn heart. “Yes, Georgie,” she says, preferring to encourage rather than correct him. Trying to tell him his true name has so far proven fruitless. The healers have hypothesized that after the shock, it became easier for George to communicate through an invented persona, and thus developed this wretched boy who calls himself Fitzpatrick.

 

He--Molly’s son, her George, her Fitzpatrick--tilts his head as he looks at her, like a curious puppy. For a fleeting moment, something flickers across his face, and Molly’s heart clenches painfully; might it be a moment of recognition? The healers remind her it will take time, but why not? She is the woman who birthed and bathed him, who fed him and protected him and would always be there for him. Why shouldn’t some part of him remember?

 

“Mum?” her son says.

 

Molly manages a smile. “Yes, dear?”

 

He holds out a clenched fist, proffering a few crumpled Exploding Snap cards. “Mum want play?”

 

Even as her heart clenches yet again, Molly reminds herself to be patient. _It will take time._

 

“Why not, darling,” she says, pulling over a chair. “Nothing ever does sound better than spending an afternoon with you.”

 

*************************************************************************************

 

A gentle wave washes over the south bank of the river Thames. The water retreats, leaving a severed, yet perfectly preserved, ear lying on the muddy shore. It quivers.

  
  


THE END

**Author's Note:**

> we r sorry


End file.
